


The Perks of Being a Dog Person

by NalatteIceCream



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 2 pov but it's not a y/n sitch so don't test me, I stg if y'all start playing with me on this I will maim you in your sleep, M/M, klance, roommate au, spoopy fic about a month early but who's counting, this is a shitpost LMFAO, trans Keith because I fucking said so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 01:15:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20685074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NalatteIceCream/pseuds/NalatteIceCream
Summary: Keith and Lance have been roommates for awhile, but Lance has a secret. A pretty shitty one, too. One that, if revealed a certain way, may land him in the circus— or a government dissection table.He doesn't think much about either of these things. He just wants to keep his roommate.





	The Perks of Being a Dog Person

So here's the thing about being half canine and having a roommate— Or… things. There's a few. 

One, there's no parents to question why you always need to leave every full moon on the dot. No mom worriedly calling after you because she thinks you don't like her anymore and no dad to yell at you to stay back because your mother gets anxious and he secretly thinks you're about to shoot up a school or get shit-faced in an alleyway. In fact, your roommate _ also _disappears every full moon. So it's very convenient on both ends. 

Two, you're both dudes, so no one gets freaked out when there's hair all over the bathroom floor when you come back from… activities. Well, no one other than you, because you're a massive clean freak, but it's nice that Inspector Gadget isn't breathing down your neck whenever random piles of your clothes appear to be dropped all over the apartment. 

And three? Your roommate loves dogs. So on the rare occasion— and by rare it _ really _is rare— that he sees you while you're on your way back home, he kind of assumed you're a lost dog and gets all cute and babytalks at you the way you love to hear even though you're a grown ass man and— 

And you're kind of um. A Chihuahua. So there's that. 

But it's bearable. You like him and he likes you and you enjoy living with him. You argue sometimes and he likes to throw things, and he's short so it only makes it funnier, which makes him _ angrier _ so he throws _ more _ things, but two pizzas and a blunt later, you're back on good terms. You tease him about the mullet he hasn't worn since that one Halloween during both of your freshman year at high school and he teases you about being stretched out like a piece of taffy, since no one is naturally _ that tall, _ of course. You can't cook but he can, and he's terrible at cleaning anything ever but you kinda _ like _cleaning, so it works. 

Plus, it's gotten _ easier _ to suppress the urge to rail him against a wall sometimes, even when he walks around without a shirt on or lounges around in a pair of sweatpants or _ both. _ You suppress it, even though he's cute and he's got nice lips and sometimes the way he eats ice cream feels like a personal attack, because he's your friend, and you care about him and don't want to lose him because your dick is being a _ dick, _so you make yourself behave. And it's bearable. He doesn't know that you're… what you are, and you intend to keep it that way. 

Except now… well, there's a bit of a problem-not-so-problem now. Not-so-problem because now you have a boyfriend. Problem, because your boyfriend lives with you. _Has_lived with you. For a _ while. _So… there's that. 

Your roommate is now also your boyfriend. And you're happy and you love him, and you know you'd lay your life down on the line for him, but you're panicking. Not because he suddenly likes sticking around during full moons— no, he still leaves during those. “To give you space,” he says. It's just that well… you're boyfriends now. And boyfriends are supposed to be _ intimate _ and stuff, and well— well, what if he notices? What if you're in the middle of a heavy makeout session and your canines start growing like they always do when you get overexcited? What if— what if you _ bite _ him? That'd be _ really _ bad, right? Granted, he might be _ into _ that, but _ still, _right?? 

So yeah. Slight problem. Slight problem not-so-problem because now he's _ very _ forward about straddling your lap while you're watching cartoons and "accidentally" kissing your neck. Because now he wears his pants a little tighter, bends over a little lower and smiles a little harder when he catches you staring. Because now he makes it _ very _ clear in the way he kisses you, squeezes your hands and holds you close that he wants you; _ really _ wants you. And maybe you want him too, in all his purple-eyed glory. Maybe you'd _ absolutely _ be down to hold him up against a wall and remind the neighbors what your name is, but you can't. One mistake, and you're a precious pooch with a _ raging _hard-on, and… well…. 

It's a known fact that Chihuahuas aren't exactly known for their _ stamina. _

Plus, he's a monsterfucker. You both are, actually— you for obvious reasons, and him because… because he's just _ like _ that. But he's a monsterfucker for sure, and a monsterfucker with a _ preference. _

“I'd fuck mothman,” he said once, absentmindedly typing away on his laptop. Which was weird and unprompted enough on its own, but then he said, “I'd also _ definitely _ fuck a werewolf.” 

So maybe you died a little bit when he said that, because as much as you'd like to be? You're not a werewolf. You're a werehuahua. The most pitiful of weres and huahuas to exist. And werehuahuas don't _ get _ to fuck pretty boys with purple eyes and a thing for _ wolves _ because he grew up in the woods and was probably raised by a few of them. They don't get to fuck _ like _a wolf either; more like… a feral rabbit. 

So! Summary time. You've got a really hot roommate/boyfriend with really… _ specific _ cryptid types and a pretty vicious sex drive, and no weed. All on top of the fact that there's a full moon tonight, which means you're not really in the best of moods. And he's pretty moody too, as he often is when the moon gets full, but you chalk it up to some atheist… _ whatever _ bullshit. It doesn't even matter though; you're both moody, and you've got no money for pizza and no blunt to take the edge off, and no monster dick to surprise your boyfriend with— well, you do, but not tonight of course— and for some _ really strange reason, _ neither of you want to leave. As much as you know you're kind of _ supposed _to go, you just… don't. 

So you decide you'll settle for just being moody in your corner until he caves and leaves. You know, because you're practical like that. 

Unfortunately, so is he. 

"You're moody today," he points out. You can almost _ feel _your ear twitch. 

You decide to at least _ attempt _a joke. "I'm always moody, I've just run out of jackass juice." The joke falls flat. "And the crowd goes wild." 

"Yeah, right," he mutters, looking antsy his damn self. You get up, about to make a move for the door, but then you see him tighten his arms over his chest, staring out of the window with a scowl on his lips. He looks _ vulnerable, _ a look that you're… honestly? Not used to seeing. Now maybe that makes you a bad boyfriend, but it doesn't change the fact that it makes you feel uneasy and the need to help overpowers the need to run, so… so you don't run. You take one last look at the clouds in the sky through the window— because thinking about it, taking a few minutes out of your time to console your boyfriend won't _ kill _you or anything—and you drop your hand from the doorknob. 

He notices. "What?" 

You ask him what's wrong. "Something's up," you say, eyebrows raised in expectancy, "so what is it?" 

He tenses up. Clearly, this isn't a situation he's familiar with; not the being asked what's wrong 'cause you're nosey as hell and use every opportunity you can to help him feel better, but something else. Maybe it's the fact that you're still here with him and you're not out the door now, you're not really sure. 

After a beat of silence, he shrugs. "Not feeling good, is all." 

"Wanna use my heating pad?" You ask, rubbing your abdomen. "For…?" 

He smiles a little, shakes his head. " Maybe next week, but not tonight." 

A silence falls over the both of you again, and… and you're moving. Walking away from the door and pulling him into a hug. Normally, he'd melt into it, probably mumble something unintelligible into your shirt that you're not allowed to ask about, but he doesn't do any of that. He stands stiff, and you don't even have to look at him to know he's looking out the window. You ask him what's wrong, and he still doesn't tell you, so you hug him tighter. And he asks you why you haven't left yet, even though you said you were going out, and you ask him why he even _ cares, _because it's just encouraging you to stay. 

You remind him that part of the whole being his boyfriend sitch is that when something comes up, you help him through it; unless it's a brick wall. Then maybe, you don't know, you guys can figure out an over or around situation? Bricks aren't exactly walk-through and all. And even though you can't see it, you can feel him smiling, feel his lips tugging against your skin. And the euphoria you feel from making him smile overpowers everything else, and so you spin him around in place, telling joke after joke after stupid joke, just to keep him smiling, just to keep him from looking out the window. 

And you forget. You forget about tonight's full moon, and it's easy to forget, because he was upset and now he's smiling, and there's an insane amount of clouds in the sky anyways, so it's not like tonight really _ counts _or anything, right? 

So, you don't notice when the clouds start to uh. Move. And you don't notice the light that creeps in through the window, or now it illuminates the room and your shoes. You don't notice how you begin to change, how your legs start to shrink in your jeans and your shirt gets saggy and your hair suddenly isn't confined to the top of your head anymore. And you don't notice Keith, either, how he seems to shrink with you, or how furry he feels under your hands, hands that are slowly turning into paws and _ oh holy fuck you're changing. You're changing in the living room. Fuck. FUCK. _

You jump back, or… awkwardly fall away from Keith on all fours, backing out of the light of the room into one of the more shadowy corners, and you squeeze your eyes shut and you curl in on yourself, because you can't look. Because if you look, Keith might one, be taller than you again, and two, look so _ freaked _ out by it all that he beelines for the door and oh, if _ that _ happened you'd just lose your _ mind— _

"...Lance?" 

You can't look. 

"Lance?" 

Seriously, you can't. You can't take it, you're at your fucking limit— 

"Lance, fucking look at me." 

… Well shit. Okay, then. 

You open your eyes, and instead of being met with a gym rat towering over him, you're met by… fluff. Purple eyes surrounded by black fluff and small, _ adorably _fluffy ears that twitches slightly when he realizes that he's got your attention. He's staring at you in the same spot he'd been standing back when you both had height, and— 

"You have an _ accent?" _ You ask, padding closer to Keith. "Are you— wh— why do you— why do you have an _ accent?" _

You pad around him, this… this _ very small four-legged version of Keith _ standing in the living room, nose working overtime as your senses are just _ flooded _ with new shit, new shit that feels strangely familiar. You stop in front of him again. "You're just like me." A pause. " _ Why do you have an accent?" _

"It's the Pomeranian." Keith says finally. "From my mom's side. You don't exactly sound too _ voice neutral _yourself, Taco Tuesday." 

You... you gotta sit down. Not because your legs hurt or anything, you're in perfectly good Chihuahua health thank you very much, but… this is… well this is a _ lot. _ Keith is a _ werehuahua. _ Or, a werehuahua mixed with Pomeranian and… yeah, you're not even gonna _ try _ to decipher that bit. But he's like _ you, _ and— and it all makes _ sense _ now. Why he was always so keen on leaving during every full moon, why he never complained when your teeth would urm… get in the _ way _ of things, why _ — _ well, anyone else in their right mind would probably stop wanting to live with you by now and— _ wait a second _. 

"Did you _ know?" _

Keith blinks. "Maybe." 

"Keith— _ Dude— _ you knew and you just let me walk around like there's goddamn _ eggshells _ all over? _ Keith!" _

You stare at him, tapping against the floor with your front paws out of the need to pace back and forth, and he tells you that he wasn't sure, he had an idea, but he wasn't sure. And it's not enough, so you ask him why he stayed. Why he didn't leave and just… stared out of the window. 

Because he was tired of hiding, he tells you. Because he loves you, and he was tired of hiding, even if it meant being ten times shorter than you once a month. And after a moment of silence, it makes you laugh, because he's ten times shorter than you _ all _the time, but you don't tell him that. Instead, you lick his cheek, press your nose into his neck and breathe him in. And you ask him what happens now. 

His eyes flash. "... Wanna go bite ankles together?" 

"Keith. Oh my God. That's the most romantic thing anyone has ever asked me to do." 

So. Here's the deal. You've got a really hot roommate/boyfriend/fellow werepomeranianhuahua whatever the fuck he is,with really… _ specific _ cryptid types, and you love him and he loves you back, so it's… perfect, actually. Sometimes you argue, and he likes to throw things, and he's short so you find it funny and it makes him even angrier so he throws _ more _ things, but a kiss and a smack on the ass later, you're back on good terms. You still can't cook and he still can't clean, and you still tease him about that freshman mullet and he still jabs at you for being so fucking tall; Christ, even when you're both dogs you're still taller than him. You're not scared of getting intimate with him anymore, you don't get nervous when he straddles your lap and purposely kisses your neck, and it turns out, he really _ , really _likes to be bitten. Who knew? 

Well, only the neighbors. That and your first, middle _ and _ last name, but you don't exactly mind it when you've got him up against a wall and everything. 

Once a month, you both stand in the living room and _ shrink _together, and if you're feeling sappy you hold hands, and you go out into the night and raid old people homes and crash parties and bite ankles to your heart's content. 

There's still no parents to nag you, no one to panic about you leaving fur anywhere ( although Keith does occasionally remind you that his fur is black, not brown, so he can tell when you've has been rolling around on the couch). And on the days where he feels so low down he can't even look at himself, you nuzzle your way into his lap with a heating pad and his reading glasses, and he babytalks to you with the softest of smiles, because he still loves dogs. 

He also still loves wolves, but hey. You've been working on your stamina! He'll be fantasizing about Chihuahuas in no time. 

Just… make sure you keep that to yourself.


End file.
